He plowed ahead for a couple of hundred feet, keeping a lookout for tire tracks or bushes knocked down by another vehicle. After fifteen minutes, he looped back toward his starting point, but found nothing. As he set out in a different direction, he hit an aardvark hole and the truck pitched forward. Low range and diff lock got him out, but the vehicle crashed back into a tree root, and soon he realized he had a puncture. Cursing and sweating in the midday heat, he changed the wheel, grateful for the two spares he always carried. He was beginning to wonder if the rental agent had given him the wrong coordinates. If so, the man would be lucky to get off with a broken jaw.
On a whim, he climbed up onto the hood and looked around. Almost at once, fifty feet away, he saw a fairly straight slash through the bush, probably a firebreak separating one part of nowhere from another. It would be easy to drive on that. He jumped down, started the vehicle, and headed toward it, stopping just before he reached it. He climbed out, walked to the cleared area, and was pleased to see several vehicle tracks working their way along the cutting. Glancing up the firebreak, he could make out a yellow vehicle a hundred yards away, pulled off to one side and parked under one of the larger trees.
His instincts told him there was a problem, and he wasn’t going to take any risks. He worked his way back to the truck and fetched his nine-millimeter automatic and a couple of extra clips, which he stuffed into his pocket. Then he started to circle through the bush to approach the other vehicle from the side opposite where his own was parked. If Collins was alone in the Land Cruiser, his attention would be on the direction where he’d heard the truck. Of course, if there were several people, it wasn’t going to be so easy.
From time to time, Festus stopped and listened, but all he could hear was a variety of insect chirps. It was too hot even for birds. He wiped the sweat out of his eyes and moved closer, carefully stepping on bare sand patches to avoid making noise. At last he saw the vehicle through the bush and crouched, waiting for any signs of life. Nothing. Slowly he moved forward, alert for any reaction. Finally, he was close enough to see that no one was waiting for him, unless they were hiding in the vehicle. He crouched and made his way to the bush side of the car, where he could approach without being exposed. Standing up carefully, he had a good view into the Land Cruiser. It was empty.
Well, that wasted half an hour, he thought. But it’s those half hours of extra caution that keep you alive.
He tried the passenger door and found it unlocked.
Was that because Collins was coming back soon, he wondered, or because the vehicle had been abandoned?
He left the door ajar and went round to the driver’s side to examine the firebreak. He was pretty sure he had the answer then. He could distinguish two sets of tire tracks. One ended at the Land Cruiser. The other made a loop and headed back. Two vehicles had reached this point; one had returned. The question was, where was Collins?
There was the possibility that Collins had left his vehicle before the other one had arrived. Festus checked for footprints leading into the bush, but all he found were the tracks he’d made himself. Next he looked for footprints from the driver’s side of the Land Cruiser, angry with himself for not checking before he’d walked there. However, it turned out not to matter. Although they were scuffed by his heavy boots, Festus could make out only one other set of footprints, leading from Collins’s vehicle to where the other vehicle had been parked.
He cursed.
It looks as though Collins set up a rendezvous and just abandoned the Land Cruiser, he thought.
Festus spent the next half hour searching the vehicle but found very little of interest. There was typical camping gear—a stretcher, the tent, canned food, bottles of water, and a freezer, which was no longer running. Festus lifted the lid and was hit by the stink of rotting meat. He slammed it shut. Obviously the Land Cruiser had been abandoned quite a while ago. Probably pretty soon after Collins’s last call, he thought. There were also some clothes, but no notes or anything Collins may have collected in the desert. Festus cursed again. It seemed that Collins had given him the slip.
Festus drove back along the firebreak, following the tracks of what he now thought of as Collins’s getaway vehicle. At least this was easy, and he could drive with the windows closed and the air conditioner running at full blast. After about half a mile, he came to the main road between New Xade and the Central Kalahari Game Reserve. He realized he could have saved himself several hours if he’d found the firebreak earlier, before he’d headed into the bush. Well, no point in thinking about that now. The tracks he was following turned right toward New Xade. And toward Ghanzi, and the rest of Botswana, South Africa, and Namibia.
Festus found a patch of shade, pulled over, and drank half a liter of water. It was well past lunchtime, and he was hungry, so he dug out the sandwiches he’d bought the day before and ate them, ignoring the staleness of the bread.
While he washed them down with the rest of the water, his mind was working on what to do next. He checked his cell phone but, as expected, there was no reception. Angrily, he tossed the phone on the passenger seat. He knew Collins had been with a Bushman guide, so he’d be known in New Xade. Maybe he could find someone there familiar with the area and what Collins was looking for out in the desert. Maybe, once he knew that, it would give him a clue to where Collins had headed.
He started the truck and drove off.
* * *
FESTUS’S REACTION TO New Xade was even less enthusiastic than Detective Sergeant Segodi’s had been.
What a dump, he thought. The village is well off the road to the game reserve, so even the tourists will pass it by.
As he entered the village, a few people watched his car and sullenly returned his greeting. He realized he needed help. He needed someone who could translate for him and who would know of the people who came through the village. The police station was the obvious option, but he didn’t particularly want the police knowing what he was up to. His story about being Collins’s coworker wouldn’t stand up under scrutiny, and he didn’t want the police on his case. No, he wasn’t going there.
Then he saw a neat sign pointing ahead. SAN ARTS AND CRAFTS. No doubt something for tourists, and that meant someone there would speak some English or Setswana. He followed the bumpy track a short way until he reached a peculiar building that looked like a miniature church, complete with a covered porch. The building was surrounded by a fence and was obviously locked up.
Not a lot of passing traffic, he thought.
However, the sign at the gate had a telephone number, which he dialed. After a few moments it was answered.
“Dumela,” he said. Then he asked, in Setswana, “Do you speak Setswana or English? I’m at the arts and crafts shop.”
A woman replied in Setswana, “Yes, I’m coming. Please wait a little while.”
Festus found some shade for the car and waited. He wondered how long “a little while” might be in New Xade.
After about fifteen minutes, an elderly Bushman woman came walking briskly up the road and approached the car.
“I am Mma Kang,” she introduced herself. “I manage the San Culture Trust here. This is our shop,” she added with pride. “It was donated to New Xade by the European Union.”
“Yes, it’s very … impressive,” Festus replied. “My name is Festus. I’d be very pleased to see the shop.”
“Yes, of course.” Mma Kang fiddled with the lock on the gate and led him up the steps to the porch. She opened the door with some difficulty and switched on the light.
The place was a single large room with a table at one end, covered with trinkets. Four pictures hung on one wall, and Festus went over to view them. They appeared to be abstract representations of desert plants and animals, with no attempt at coherence or perspective. To Festus they looked like something a child might draw. A picture, he felt, should be attractive, and the subject immediately identifiable. Nevertheless, he looked at each one carefully.
“Interes
ting,” he said at last.
The woman smiled and nodded. “I worked for years in the museum in Gaborone before I came here. There we have pictures by Dada. She is a very great artist. But these are good, too, and much less expensive.”
She probably worked there as a cleaner, Festus thought.
“Do you have any craftwork?” he asked. “I’m more interested in something like that.”
“Of course,” she said, and showed him a variety of ostrich eggshell necklaces and bracelets, as well as long strings of seedpods that rattled when shaken. Festus settled for an eggshell bracelet.
As he paid her, he said, “I’d like to hear more about the artists here.” She was happy to oblige and, for the next few minutes, Festus listened and asked questions. As he thought it would, an eventual lull led her to ask what brought him to New Xade.
“I’m trying to contact a Dr. Collins, who I believe is doing research around here with your people. The university he works for said that he was often in New Xade. Did you meet him, perhaps?”
She nodded. “Oh yes. He visited here once, and we had a good talk. He is interested in how the Bushmen pass down their history through stories—particularly the Bushman group from this area. He was talking to everyone here at one time but, after he met Heiseb, he spent most of his time with him.”
“Is it possible to meet this Heiseb? Does he live around here?”
Kang shook her head. “He was found dead a week ago. He was very old—much older than me—but still healthy. There is a rumor someone killed him.”
“That’s very sad,” Festus said. “Do they know who did it?”
Kang shook her head again and looked down at her desk.
Well, well, he thought. I wonder if she thinks our Dr. Collins did it.
“Are the police investigating?”
“There was a detective here from Ghanzi a couple of days ago.”
Festus shifted in his seat. That was bad news. If the police were also after Collins, he’d like to find him before they did. Suddenly, he realized he’d made a stupid mistake at Collins’s vehicle. His fingerprints would be all over it. The police might jump to conclusions.
“Is there anyone else who might know more about Dr. Collins and Heiseb?”
She hesitated. “There is N’kaka. He is old too. Older than me, but not as old as Heiseb. He used to talk to them. To Heiseb and Dr. Collins. But he does not speak Setswana.”
“Would you help me? It’s really quite important. I could make a donation in exchange for your time.”
She hesitated, but then nodded. She closed up the shop, told Festus to follow her, and headed off along a footpath. Festus was soon sweating, but the sun didn’t seem to bother the old woman as she walked briskly along the sandy track.
Eventually she reached a small house made from concrete blocks, with a corrugated iron roof. Nearby was an acacia tree with a few plastic chairs sheltering in its shade. An old Bushman was sitting there alone, with a bottle of St. Louis beer stuck in the sand next to him.
It must be the temperature of soup, Festus thought.
Kang introduced N’kaka, who looked at Festus with suspicion and didn’t respond to his greeting, but didn’t object when they sat with him. A long dialogue followed between the two Bushmen. At last, Kang turned to Festus and said, “N’kaka wants to know why you are interested in Dr. Collins and Heiseb.”
“Please tell him I work with Professor Collins. That I’m searching for him. That I’m afraid he may be lost in the desert.” Another exchange followed, but N’kaka didn’t look any more sympathetic. Kang turned to Festus with a shrug and said, “He refuses to talk about them. He says they have brought trouble to New Xade. They were greedy men.”
Festus pounced on the last sentence. “Why does he say they were greedy?”
She asked him, but N’kaka brushed it aside with his hand as though he were waving off flies.
The heat, the irritations of the day, and now this intractable old man proved too much for Festus. Losing his temper, he grabbed the man’s thin arm, yanking him forward. “Answer me, damn you!” he yelled. “Or I’ll break your arm.”
Turning his head to Kang, he added, “Tell him!”
Instead, she screamed at Festus, “Let him go! He is an old man. You cannot treat him like that!” She tried to pull him away, but he ignored her.
“Tell him!”
She gabbled something to N’kaka. His face indicated the pain, but he said nothing.
Festus cursed and let go so suddenly that the man fell backwards off his chair. “He knows nothing. Idiot!” he shouted.
He stood up and said to Kang, “Do you know anyone else who can help me find Collins? I’ll give you money.”
She shook her head. “I do not want your money. I do not think you are a friend of Dr. Collins at all. You are not a good man.” With that, she turned away and headed off into the village.
Festus stared after her.
Stupid woman! he thought. If she’d got some answers out of N’kaka, she’d have made a bit of money. But she’s just a stupid old woman who sells scam artworks to gullible tourists.
He snorted, turned his back on the old man, who was nursing his wrist, and walked away in the direction of his truck.
He decided that he might as well head for Ghanzi. Maybe a few discreet inquiries there would turn something up.
CHAPTER 15
It was “Grand March” from Aida emanating from his phone that woke Kubu from a deep sleep, and it took him a few moments to orient himself. Eventually he sat up and staggered out of bed, putting one hand down on the covers to balance himself. He vaguely recalled that his mobile was in one of the pockets of his trousers, which were draped over the back of a chair in the darkest corner of the room. However, before he could move toward the chair, the ringing stopped.
Kubu shook his head, trying to wake up, and sat down on the edge of the bed to gather his wits. He turned on the bedside light, which caused Joy to grunt and roll over. Again Kubu stood up, and he walked carefully over to the chair to retrieve the phone. Just as he was about to see who had called, the phone rang again, startling him.
“Assistant Superintendent Bengu.” His voice had a deep, disjointed texture to it. He cleared his throat and repeated the salutation.
“I hope this is a good time to call, Superintendent Bengu.” The person speaking was obviously an American woman.
Kubu grunted.
“This is Petra Collins in Minneapolis. I got a message from the University of Minnesota asking my husband to call you as soon as he could.” She paused. “Actually, he’s in Botswana at the moment.”
“Do you know where?” Kubu asked as he opened the bedroom door and went to sit at the dining room table. “We’ve had an incident here involving an elderly Bushman we believe he knows, and we thought he might help us with some of the details. One of his colleagues at the university here told us your husband had returned home to the States about a month ago.”
“Yes, he was here for about ten days, then he went back.”
“When was that?”
“Well, today’s Thursday the twenty-second, and he left two weeks ago last Monday. So that would make it Monday the fifth. He sent me a text message when he arrived in Botswana, late on the sixth, and we spoke briefly the following day. He said he was heading out into the Kalahari the next day.” She paused. “I haven’t heard from him since, but that’s not unusual. He often doesn’t contact me until he gets back to Gaborone.”
“Do you know what he’s doing in Botswana?”
“Of course,” she said. “He’s been to Botswana several times over the past year or so, trying to prove a theory he has about how Bushmen pass down their oral history. He’s convinced that, rather than just telling stories of things that have happened in the past, they pretend to have been part of the stories. He was very excited when he found a Bushman who appeared to do exactly that.”
Kubu said nothing.
“That’s why he went back. He w
anted to talk to the Bushman some more.”
“Do you know the Bushman’s name?”
“If I remember correctly, it was something like Hossip or Hysip.”
“Do you know where he was going to meet him?”
“All I know is that Chris goes to a town on the west side of the country—New something or other. It has a click in it. Then he heads into the desert.”
Kubu perked up. “It’s probably New Xade. There are a number of Bushman groups in the area.”
And it’s close to where Heiseb’s body was found, he thought.
“Mrs. Collins, where does your husband normally stay when he’s in Gaborone?”
“I think it is a hotel called The Palms or The Grand Palm or something like that.”
“That would be The Grand Palm—it’s a good hotel. I’ll contact them, and if I find out anything useful, I’ll let you know.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“Thank you very much for contacting me, Mrs. Collins. If you hear from your husband, please ask him to contact me immediately.”
* * *
AS SOON AS the call with Kubu had ended, Petra dialed another number.
“Ross Pharmaceuticals.”
“Brian Ross, please.”
“Hold the line.”
A few moments later, Ross came on the line.
“Brian, this is Petra. Have you heard from Chris? I’m really worried. On Monday I got an email from him saying that he’s going to Namibia and that I shouldn’t tell anyone. And I just got off the phone with someone in the Botswana police. They’re looking for Chris. It sounds as though something’s going on with that Bushman he’s been working with, and they want to get some information from him.”
Dying to Live Page 8
